


Crash

by LudicrousLegacy



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Altair is an asshole, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Awkwardness, Fluff, God I hate tags, Lawyer!Malik, M/M, Malik has one arm, Slow Build, Texting, Yeah I suppose this could be considered fluff, let's see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LudicrousLegacy/pseuds/LudicrousLegacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never bothered himself with the people upstairs. He was simply glad to have a job, a means by which to provide for himself and help put Kadar through school. And this cocky son of a bitch here, with his stupidly-expensive shoes and shit-eating grin, had probably never suffered for a day in his life. So Malik had sniffed petulantly, promised to take a look at the papers, and effectively dismissed him with a stern glance and pointed silence.</p><p>And then he had put him completely out of his mind. That is, until three hours later, when he was maneuvering out of the building’s parking lot and Altaïr’s giant black Jeep smashed into the side of his old red Beetle. The poor thing never stood a chance. And neither, it seemed, did Malik’s left arm. And so it was that he had lost them both, and Altaïr had gotten away with a bump in his front fender and ridiculous gash on one side of his stupid smirky mouth.</p><p>It still makes Malik want to throw something every time he thinks about it.</p><p>Update: Now with cover art!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash

_(Flawless banner by altmaled on tumblr)_

It’s been three months today since Malik came home from the hospital, and he _still_ doesn’t understand why the fuck he said yes.

Whenever he can force himself to ponder it, his thoughts always stray first to the moment when he finally regained consciousness after the surgery, only to find a wild-eyed, ashen-faced Altaïr sitting at his bedside. Shifting and twisting uncomfortably under Kadar’s uncharacteristically angry gaze, he was mumbling an apology for the six thousandth time (or so Malik was told; he hadn’t been awake to hear the other 5,999). He looked so forlorn, so sad and lost and genuinely remorseful that Malik had finally grumbled a begrudging response when he could see tears in the other man’s eyes. And yet Altaïr continued to apologize, as though even when Malik could forgive him, there was absolutely no way he could forgive himself.

In a way, it brought Malik a sort of satisfaction, since he could be both lofty and forgiving, and yet still have the man groveling at his feet like a kicked puppy. So he had remained quiet, even when Altaïr paid what medical bills the insurance wouldn’t cover, bullied the entire hospital staff into treating him like a god, and arranged for the home help that Malik would inevitably need once he was allowed to leave.

Three months to the day. And as Malik waves away his nurse’s—sorry, his _home care provider’s—_ help and dumps a few spoonfuls of sugar into his own coffee _thank you very much,_ he ponders yet again what possessed him to say yes.

The funniest part (to Malik at least) is that he had only just met Altaïr the day of the accident. He can recall perfectly the way the man had swaggered into his sixth-floor office, handed him a briefcase full of tax forms with an arrogant smirk, and told him that the boss had sent him down to Legal, to have them “work their magic” on some dubious numbers. And this was the bit that really puzzled him; he could remember instantly disliking the man and everything about him. From the loosely-knotted, slim black tie over his crisp white blouse, to his highly-burnished, patent-leather Italian loafers, the man exuded an overwhelming aura of arrogance and conceit. And it made Malik want to puke.

He never bothered himself with the people upstairs. He was simply glad to have a job, a means by which to provide for himself and help put Kadar through school. And this cocky son of a bitch here, with his stupidly-expensive shoes and shit-eating grin, had probably never suffered for a day in his life. So Malik had sniffed petulantly, promised to take a look at the papers, and effectively dismissed him with a stern glance and pointed silence.

And then he had put him completely out of his mind. That is, until three hours later, when he was maneuvering out of the building’s parking lot and Altaïr’s giant black Jeep smashed into the side of his old red Beetle. The poor thing never stood a chance. And neither, it seemed, did Malik’s left arm. And so it was that he had lost them both, and Altaïr had gotten away with a bump in his front fender and ridiculous gash on one side of his stupid smirky mouth.

It still makes Malik want to throw something every time he thinks about it.

He didn’t care when Altaïr’s younger brother came to explain that Altaïr suffered from literally blinding headaches sometimes, and had lost control of the car. He didn’t care that Altaïr hadn’t taken his medication that day, and had been at serious risk of a seizure or a heart attack. He had been careless. He had forgotten his pills. Was Malik to be blamed for another man’s mistake? Desmond’s words had been carefully chosen, Malik knew, his sentences constructed in such a way that he was not offering an excuse for his brother, but rather an explanation. Malik still didn’t care. He just wanted him gone, him and his irresponsible brother both.

He didn’t want to risk pressing charges. He was a lawyer, he knew how the courts worked. Knew that his bachelor’s degree training in plain old General Law would be no help against the kind of lawyer Altaïr’s money could buy. The man wore shoes that cost as much as an entire month’s worth of groceries; he would surely hire some top-notch criminal lawyer to trounce Malik’s pathetic ass. So he coolly informed the inquiring Altaïr that he wasn’t going to press charges when it came up, and the look on his face when he heard that Malik wasn’t going to sue was almost laughable, really.

Even if it _was_ more of a gratefully confused look than a mocking one….especially when he actually _asked_ Malik to press charges….

Malik sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, glancing sideways at his watch as he does. It’s ten to eleven. Almost time. He drags himself over to the window seat, tucks his legs up, and settles in to finish his coffee. He’s not nervous…he couldn’t possibly be. That increase in his heart rate must just be all the caffeine…this _is_ his second cup after all. He sniffs and takes another quaff from his cup, shaking his head when his nurse asks him if there’s anything else he can do before he leaves.

And just as he’s opening the door, his guest has his hand poised to knock on it, and almost ends up knocking on his face instead. “Ah, sorry….” He mumbles, immediately lowering his hand, looking contrite. “I’m here to see Mr. Al-Sayf.”

Still recovering from his shock, the nurse turns back to face him, still poised on the window seat, albeit with a slight frown now marring his features. “Mr. Al-Sayf?” He asks, and Malik nods, waving his arm, causing the coffee inside his cup to slosh about dangerously. “It’s all right, Shaun, I was expecting him.” He nods at Altaïr, unwilling to gesture with his cup again, and Shaun relaxes once more, hitching his messenger bag higher onto his shoulder. “Right, then, I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.” Shaun delicately sidesteps Altaïr and takes off, down the corridor and out of sight.

Malik raises an eyebrow at Altaïr, who is still standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking uncomfortable and out of place. “You can come in, Mr. La’Ahad,” he says pointedly, and Altaïr blushes but steps into the room, shutting the door carefully behind him. “I…thanks for seeing me,” he says, somewhat lamely, and Malik notices the bouquet of flowers in his hands.  Tulips, out of season, obviously expensive. “I brought you these.”

Malik’s face remains unchanged, and Altaïr’s flush deepens slightly. It’s not a good look on him; the delicate red looks out of place and almost silly on his sharp features. “Thank you,” Malik says finally, and Altaïr finally lets something like a smile come over his features. “You can just leave them on the counter, I’ll take care of them later.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to—?”

“ _Yes,_ I am.” Malik says firmly, and Altaïr winces almost imperceptibly. “I can assure you, I’m more than capable of taking care of it.” It’s not in his nature to be so brusque, especially with a guest, so he sighs and gestures, more carefully this time, to the sofa. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?”

Altaïr looks like he’s about to refuse, but sits down carefully on the sofa and gives a little shrug. “Water will be fine,” he says, and Malik untucks his legs and rises to get him the drink. He frowns at his coffee cup and leaves it on the side of the sink as he fills the glass, hating every second he feels is wasted by being unable to use both hands.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” Altaïr says quietly, but not so low that Malik can’t hear him over the sound of the tap. He removes the glass and nudges the tap shut with his elbow, walking back over to where Altaïr is sitting and handing him his drink. He murmurs a thanks as Malik sits in the armchair on the side, crossing his legs and surveying him with what he hopes isn’t too hostile of an expression. “I think I can guess,” he says coolly, and Altaïr doesn’t blush this time, but he still looks embarrassed. “If you’re here to apologize again, you really needn’t. I assure you, I’ve put the matter behind me.” He hesitates before adding, almost grudgingly, “I think you can stop beating yourself up about it now.”

“Like it’s that simple,” Altaïr scoffs, taking a long drink of water and setting his glass down directly on the table. Fighting the urge to hand him a coaster, Malik cocks an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s really not.” And damn him if Altaïr doesn’t have the sharpest gaze he’s ever seen, topaz eyes trained on him like a hawk. “I…I know it must mean very little to you…but I’ve been utterly tormented by the incident ever since it happened.”

“If you’ve been tormented, I can’t really think of a word to describe how _I’ve_ been feeling,” Malik snaps, and Altaïr flinches again, backtracking hastily. “That’s not what I…I mean, I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s…fine.” Malik holds up his hand, and Altaïr falls silent. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” Malik murmurs, and he looks away, out the window again, wishing he hadn’t allowed Altaïr to come over at all.

“Yes, you should have.” Altaïr says eagerly, and Malik snorts lightly. “I mean it…I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make this about me. It’s really not.”

“Mr. La’Ahad, why are you here?” Malik asks bluntly, all of a sudden feeling weary to the bone. “I meant it; if you’re here to apologize, don’t. These things happen. I don’t believe you meant for me to get hurt in any way, but that’s just the way it went down.”

“I’m….” Altaïr swallows hard, and reaches for his glass again, downing the rest of the water in one huge gulp. “I’m…honestly? I’m not sure.” He sets his glass down again, and if his fingers shake slightly, neither of them choses to comment on it. “I just….felt like I needed to see you. See how you were…well…coping, I guess.”

Malik purses his lips, unwilling to let his surprise show on his face. “And as you can see, I’m managing just fine. Although I do appreciate having Mr. Hastings around. Thank you for that.”

Altaïr nods, clearly eager to seize on anything that isn’t a direct attack on him. “It was the least I could do.” He says, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I mean, I remember when my dad lost his leg some years ago, how he really could have used someone to help him around the house.” His gaze slides from Malik’s face as he speaks, flicking to the pinned-up sleeve of his shirt.

Intrigued despite himself, Malik settles back more comfortably in his armchair. “Oh?” He prompts, and Altaïr nods. “Iraq War,” he offers simply, and Malik nods in understanding.

A moment of silence passes between them, and Altaïr reaches for his glass again before realizing it’s empty. Malik opens his mouth to offer him a refill, but Altaïr beats him to it, getting to his feet and picking the glass off the table. “No no, I’ll do it, it’s all right. And not because…well…yeah I’ll get it myself.”

To his own surprise, Malik settles back again, nodding. He watches as Altaïr slinks off to the kitchen, hears the tap go on, and then off again in the kitchen, and finds himself being presented with his coffee cup as Altaïr comes back.

“It’s still warm,” Altaïr says, as he hands him the mug. Malik takes it wordlessly as Altaïr sits back down, tapping his fingernails against the side of the glass.

The silence stretches again, and to Malik’s horror, it seems to be turning _companionable_ all of a sudden. He clears his throat just as Altaïr makes to take a sip of water, and almost laughs as the man chokes in his haste to see what he needs.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Malik says, and he sounds more amused than upset. “You really needn’t keep treating me like one.”

“I never meant to,” Altaïr coughs out, and Malik rolls his eyes and hands him a Kleenex, which he accepts gratefully. He wipes his mouth as Malik watches, his lips curling into a smile. “I know.” He says.

And to his own surprise, he finds that he actually means it.

“Anyway, you were saying something?” Altaïr asks, and it’s almost endearing, the way his face is still flushed from his little fit. Almost.

Malik shrugs, taking a drink of coffee to clear his throat. “Just wondering if you had anything else to say. You seemed rather desperate to meet me when you phoned.”

“I wouldn’t call it desperate,” Altaïr protests, and Malik smiles wryly at him. “I just…I just wanted to see you.” He seems to realize himself how lame it sounds, for he busies himself with the Kleenex in his hands. “Call it redemption. Call it curiosity. Whatever makes you feel better about it.”

“I see.” Malik paused, setting his cup down to run his hand through his hair. “And what makes you feel better about it, pray tell?”

“Interest.” Altaïr replies simply, that hawk-like gaze meeting his once more.

“Interest?” Malik prompts, but Altaïr looks away again. “Interest.” He repeats, his eyes on his glass.

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered, or worried.” Malik teases, and it’s really throwing him off, the turn that this conversation seems to have taken. He studies Altaïr carefully, his loosened tie, his immaculate white shirt, those senselessly expensive shoes he so hated when he met him the first time. He wonders idly if Altaïr knows that those shoes cost more than the couch he’s sitting on.

“You know,” Altaïr says, finally looking at him again, “I could ask myself the same thing.”

And now it’s Malik’s turn to blush. “Am I allowed to ask just what ‘interest’ entails?”

Altaïr waves vaguely. “This, for starters.”

“And what exactly is this?”

Altaïr smirks faintly, and for a moment Malik is caught off-guard by how handsome the expression makes him look. “Expressing my interest.”

Malik’s eyebrows rise as he looks into those golden eyes. “You’re very bold for someone in your position, Mr. La’Ahad.” He says, after a pregnant pause.

“Altaïr.” He says, shaking his head. “Mr. La’Ahad is my father.”

“I imagine he would be,” Malik replies evenly, and Altaïr actually laughs. “All right then, Malik. Mr. Al-Sayf would be mine.”

“Malik,” Altaïr says, as if testing the feel of it on his tongue. “All right then.”

“All right,” Malik says, “Altaïr.”

Altaïr smiles, a genuine smile, not a pitying one, or an arrogant one. Malik likes how it looks on him, though he would never say it to his face. “How’s your car?” He asks, to fill the silence.

“It’ll live.” Altaïr’s smile fades slightly, as though he hoped they wouldn’t be coming back to this point. “How’s your…well…you?”

“ _How’s your you_?” Malik echoes, and Altaïr gives him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“My ‘me’ is…better.” Malik chooses to be honest about it. He might as well, since Altaïr has been nothing but since walking into his apartment. “It’s been…difficult to adjust. But I’ve always been very resilient. It’s a force of habit I’m afraid.” He feels like he’s earned it at this point, so he decides to goad him a bit. “We weren’t all born with silver spoons in our mouths.”

“You must be mistaking me for something I’m not,” Altaïr replies smoothly. “My spoon was nothing but plain old wood, I’m afraid.”

“Says the man whose shoes could fund my brother’s tuition for a week,” Malik shoots back, and Altaïr looks down at his feet for a moment in confusion before understanding. “Ah…well…they didn’t exactly fall into my lap, you know.” He says, almost defensively.

“Hmm,” Malik responds, and Altaïr purses his lips. “You don’t have to believe it, but I know what you probably think of me. So I’ll let it go for now. Maybe I’ll tell you my rags-to-riches story someday.”

“Maybe you will,” Malik taunts, and Altaïr seems to relax a bit. “Maybe I will indeed.” He replies, and the smile is back on his face again.

The silence this time is a lot easier to bear, as Malik sips his coffee and studies his guest’s face. Altaïr is looking out the window, away from him once more, but Malik doesn’t find it as rude as he did before.

A smile finds its way onto his face when Altaïr’s gaze is turned away. Maybe it was a good idea letting him come after all.

*

Altaïr leaves shortly afterwards, saying something about work and insurance, and Malik lets him show himself out. He stays in the armchair, staring at Altaïr’s half-empty water glass, his expression blank but his mind full. He thinks about Altaïr, his unabashed honesty, his candor almost refreshing, truth be told. Not that Malik would ever tell him so to his face.

His phone rings beside him, and he sets down his cold coffee to answer it, blinking rapidly to rid himself of the itch in his eyes he can’t rub away. “Hello?”

“Malik,” Kadar’s voice floats into his ear, quelling his thoughts, “hey, I’m getting lunch on my way home, want me to pick up something for you?”

“Yeah,” Malik sighs, holding his phone with his shoulder as he massages his eyelids with his thumb and finger. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, just don’t be late.”

“Sure,” Kadar hesitates, asking more softly, “you okay? You sound tired.”

“I’m fine,” Malik assures him, opening his eyes to find himself staring at Altaïr’s glass again. “Really.”

“All right, I’ll be back soon,” Kadar promises, and rings off, leaving Malik to stare at the glass again, condensation running down its side, shiny in the afternoon sun.

Texting is hard with only one thumb to write with, but he manages it in the end, somehow. _I appreciated you coming over today. And thank you again for the flowers._ He hits send before he can change his mind.

The reply comes back faster than he would have thought. _It was my pleasure._ And then, barely a minute later, _Thank you for seeing me. I’m surprised things went as well as they did._

He smiles at that. He can’t help it. He texts back, _So am I._ He pauses for a moment before sending another. _I’m kind of surprised myself. You’re less of an annoyance than I thought you would be._

An even faster response this time. _I’ll take that as a compliment._

Malik snorts. _It wasn’t meant to be one._

_I’ll take it as one all the same._

He laughs outright this time. _You’re kind of a prick, you know that?_

He can practically see the smirk in the response. _I’ve been told. Your brother in particular is very fond of telling me so whenever he sees me._

 _Does that surprise you?_ He’s typing without even thinking about it now.

_No. Not really._

He grins as he punches in a response, _You know, you never finished your second glass of water. Rather rude, don’t you think?_

The reply doesn’t come as quickly this time. Malik imagines him mulling it over in his head, contemplating how to approach the suggestion. _Very. Please accept my sincerest apologies. Next time I’ll be sure to finish it off and put the glass in the sink myself._

 _Next time?_ He knows he’s being cheeky but he can’t help it. Nor does he want to.

_I thought that’s what you meant?_

Malik smirks. _It was._ He lets himponder that for a moment before adding, _But I should warn you, if you don’t use a coaster, next time will very likely be the last time._

_Well then, next time I’ll use a coaster AND finish the glass._

It’s much easier, doing this over text, he realizes. Maybe they should have done this first. _Just don’t let any water spill out of that gashed mouth of yours._

 _Wouldn’t dream of it._ And would you believe it, Malik feels much better about the whole thing now. He laughs and sends one final text, _Don’t call me. I’ll call you._

_I’ll wait with bated breath._

He’s still grinning about it when Kadar walks into the apartment, takeout bag in one hand. “What are you looking so smug about?” He asks in way of greeting, as he drops onto the sofa and starts rootling through the bag.

“Nothing,” Malik replies, setting his phone aside and taking the carton of food from his brother. “I’ve just been having a good day.”

Kadar nods and starts attacking his food, tucking in with gusto, but Malik merely sits quietly, twirling his fork in his fingers, thinking about golden eyes and silver spoons and half-full glasses of water that sparkle in the sun.

He’s reaching for his phone before he can even formulate the thought fully, carton balanced precariously in his lap as he sends just _one_ more text,

_You’ve probably got Friday off. Can I interest you in another glass of water? Same time, same place._

If his stomach flips slightly as he hits send, he ignores it. He must simply be hungry.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for mrasayf on tumblr who is a perfect human being ♥ this is the longest one-shot I've ever written I honestly cannot believe I wrote this whole thing wow
> 
> I may or may not post a sequel to this. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> Thanks for reading ♥


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